


Never Be the Same Again

by bluebeholder



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Identity Issues, Minor Canonical Character(s), Nonbinary Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Other, Qunari Culture and Customs, Tal-Vashoth Culture and Customs, albeit slightly ominous, reavers do blood magic change my mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: The Iron Bull isn't sure what to make of Inquisitor Adaar. Tal-Vashoth are dangerous to everyone, murderers one and all, and this one should be no exception. But the Inquisitor is a far cry from what the Iron Bull expected. The wise thing would be for the Iron Bull to stand back and do his job. Let the Inquisitor burn to ash on his own.If he gets too close, the Iron Bull will burn with him.
Relationships: Adaar/Iron Bull
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Never Be the Same Again

**Author's Note:**

> If fanfiction is self-indulgent, then this is perhaps my most self-indulgent excursion into fic yet. 
> 
> For reference, I subscribe to the school of thought that the Qunari (for whatever reason and by whoever's hand) are definitely dragons, somewhere way back in their ancestry. I presume that, in the world of Dragon Age, where blood magic can do very interesting things, being a Qunari and drinking dragon blood reaver-style would have...consequences. Go forth with that in mind.

What was the Iron Bull supposed to _do_ with this?

Someone in this position, running a whole “Inquisition,” should be smart and charismatic, and this one certainly was. Kubide Adaar was charming, bold, engaging—if a little too trusting and unskilled in the arts of commanding an army or a court. A fine warrior, the Iron Bull’s equal in height and strength, wielding a greatsword with ease.

And, to the Iron Bull’s ongoing dismay, Vashoth. Child of Tal-Vashoth, a member of a Tal-Vashoth mercenary band. An impossibly serious risk. The Inquisitor hadn’t snapped yet, but it was only a matter of time.

The Iron Bull recommended having her assassinated in the strongest language he could.

Of course, they said no.

In fact, they just told him to get _closer_ to her. Earn her trust. Make her give up secrets that a Vashoth would, wisely, keep back from a Ben-Hassrath spy.

Yeah.

_That_ didn’t work.

Kubide was no man’s fool. She held him firmly at friendly arm’s length and showed no signs of changing. The Iron Bull thought, briefly, of trying out some kind of seduction. After thirty seconds of thought, he knew it was a non-starter. She’d kill him on the spot if she worked it out. Trusting Kubide might be, but he’d seen her fury when she was crossed and _wasn’t_ interested in having that rage aimed at him. Besides, she showed no attraction to him.

It came out eventually that she was aqun-athlok. Not a big deal, and certainly not hard to adjust to, but it did upend the Iron Bull’s idea of Kubide. He thought Kubide had no real knowledge of the Qun, but here this was. The whole idea of “aqun-athlok” was so counter to every idea the South had about gender that hearing Kubide fluently explain the intricacies of the concept to Varric convinced the Iron Bull that Kubide knew what he was about. Even though he had no idea how to even speak Qunlat.

“Enigmatic” didn’t begin to cover it.

“You play Tal-Vashoth pretty well,” Kubide told the Iron Bull once, in the Herald’s Rest. It was late, time for relaxation. His curly white hair was down around his shoulders. “Almost like you really enjoy it.”

His tone was jovial. The Iron Bull still didn’t miss the sharp look in Kubide’s wide, deep, yellow eyes. “Just a job,” the Iron Bull said. “Has good perks, but it’s a job.”

They drank and talked of other things, but the Iron Bull was unsettled by the conversation. He hadn’t expected that kind of insight from this open, heart-on-his-sleeve man. Was there something the Iron Bull had missed?

Besides, if he wasn’t careful, he admitted to himself much later, he could easily get burned up in the fires in Kubide’s eyes. 

It was strange but unsurprising when Kubide took on the mantle of reaver. The Iron Bull understood the impulse: he’d done it recklessly himself and didn’t regret it. But, even so, he used his skills with caution. Kubide didn’t bother. He went for it eagerly and didn’t hold back from using his newfound powers once he survived the initiation.

And it changed him in ways that _shocked_ the Iron Bull. He’d felt some changes, of course, it was inevitable dealing with blood magic like that—but Kubide changed _entirely_. His claws lengthened, darkened; his horns, already tall and arched, grew heavier, ridged; small scales dappled his shoulders and forearms. His eyes started to glow faintly in the dark.

When he saw Kubide the morning after the initiation, the Iron Bull had a slip of the tongue: “Looking good, ataashi.”

He got a puzzled look and a pleased smile for the comment, nothing more. Kubide didn’t know what it meant, then. Good. The Iron Bull didn’t need _that_ getting out.

The Iron Bull never met anyone else who took so much joy in battle. Reaver was a natural path for Kubide. He didn’t laugh in fights, but he smiled. He charged into everything head-on, usually before the Iron Bull even had his axe in his hand.

Every time, the Iron Bull expected that this would be the fight where Kubide didn’t stop. Where his control would snap and he’d kill his allies. Where the Iron Bull would have to put him down.

It never was.

“Do I scare you?” Kubide asked, one lazy afternoon on the road, the Ferelden summer sweltering around them. Sera and Dorian, on smaller, faster horses, rode ahead. Kubide and Bull came behind, leading the pack mule behind their much larger horses.

“Nothing scares me, boss.”

Kubide laughed. “Except demons.”

“That,” the Iron Bull said, “doesn’t count. Everyone’s scared of them.”

“You look at me like _I’m_ a demon sometimes,” Kubide said.

The Iron Bull looked at him and saw that same sharp insight as before looking back. He shook it off with a laugh: “It’s the horns.”

Kubide smiled, and let it drop.

Krem liked Kubide. Made sense, both of them being aqun-athlok, but that wasn’t much to start a friendship on. Kubide got Krem’s respect for other things and, with as hard as it was to get Krem’s good opinion, the Iron Bull had to admit Kubide must be doing something right.

“He treats everyone like they’re a part of this,” Krem said to the Iron Bull. “You know, not just…expendables.”

The Iron Bull did know what Krem meant. Kubide acted as if this whole ragtag Inquisition, from the farmers on up to his advisors, were as close as family. He didn’t look at them as resources, but people. It was a command style the Iron Bull could appreciate.

He thought there was something Qunari about it. Kubide had a knack for getting people to do the things that they were good at. Finding whatever niche in the Inquisition needed filling, and then finding someone who seemed naturally meant for it. Kubide didn’t know shit about siege warfare or army positions or the intricacies of etiquette in the Ferelden court or how to get fresh water uphill to Skyhold, but he found the people who did and kept them close. Treated them well. People loved him for it.

Until now, the Iron Bull hadn’t really expected that you could pull off that kind of loyalty and comradeship without the Qun.

They went dragon hunting.

Kubide didn’t say _why_ , except that he wanted to test their collective mettle. Sera and Blackwall seemed to look forward to it, and so did the Iron Bull. Still, he had a suspicion of his own, and a little snooping in Kubide’s pack confirmed it. He was going to create a second dose of reaver elixir. Which not only could be lethal to him, but to everyone else.

The Iron Bull watched Kubide closely, but the dragon was a pretty big distraction. He had to focus on the fight ahead more than on Kubide’s bad choices, if he wanted everyone to walk out alive. Besides…he always wanted to fight a real dragon.

It was glorious.

_Taarsidath-an halsaam._

Dragons deserved their title. He lost himself in the thrill of the fight. Teeth. Talons. Bright scales gleaming in the sun and white-hot fire raining down. Hot blood on his hands, in his veins.

He lost track of Kubide in the fight and only found him when the dust settled, too late to stop Kubide from taking the elixir. The Iron Bull caught up to him as Kubide doubled over with a cry of pain, the cup he drank from falling in the earth. He rushed to Kubide’s side, axe still in his hand.

The second the Iron Bull touched him, Kubide’s head snapped up. He _snarled_ , showing teeth. The Iron Bull stepped back, staring into fiery golden eyes, lifting his axe on instinct.

Too slow. Kubide grabbed him by the shoulders, claws sinking in, and _kissed_ him.

Fuck caution.

The axe fell to the blood-soaked ground, forgotten.

Great respect indeed.

It wasn’t the last of their liaisons. The whole Inquisition knew the same day: Sera happened to climb over the dragon corpse just about the time clothes were coming off. She and Blackwall made comments the whole way home, and both Kubide and the Iron Bull quipped right back. News traveled fast in Skyhold, and within the hour of return everyone knew. There was no reason trying to keep it discreet; Kubide wasn’t the type.

He had his bed reinforced, after he and the Iron Bull broke the frame.

Even so, they kept each other at arms’ length. Kubide made it clear that he was not interested in ever letting the Iron Bull tie him down, and that his lack of interest was mostly an issue of trust. The Iron Bull could relate: he wouldn’t let Kubide do it, either. So they kept it away from that stuff, and had a great time. And, sure, they had pillow talk, but they kept it light. The Iron Bull knew Kubide would be wary of any attempts to gather information, so he didn’t try.

Something about trying that seemed unappealing now, anyway.

Once upon a time, that would have just been part of the job. Now…it felt uncomfortably like betrayal, thinking on it. So the Iron Bull dismissed the idea, and carried on.

The Storm Coast.

“Bull,” Kubide said, gripping his shoulder.

He watched across the channel, the rain lashing at his face. The Chargers were moving into a defensive formation. A formation he taught them.

“Blow that Maker-damned horn _now_!” Kubide snapped, giving his shoulder a hard push.

Numb, the Iron Bull sounded the retreat.

The Chargers survived.

The dreadnought didn’t.

As Gatt walked away, taking everything the Iron Bull held dear with him, Kubide stood shoulder to shoulder with the Iron Bull, unmoving. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t push. Just stayed beside him, as the Inquisition put the alliance behind them.

All the Chargers talked about it like it was just another adventure. The Iron Bull lied though his teeth, as he’d been trained to do, and told them it had been a good fight. Dorian and Cassandra didn’t speak of what happened. For that, the Iron Bull was grateful.

Kubide found him late one night in the tavern. He sat down across from the Iron Bull and dropped a heavy jug on the table. “Maraas-lok,” he said. “You _don’t_ want to know the strings I pulled to get it.”

The Iron Bull took the jug and a deep draft. Tasted achingly like home. “Thanks, boss.”

While he drank, Kubide watched, arms folded over his chest. “We’re going out in two days,” he said at last, when the jug was half empty.

“I’m busy.”

“You planning to just stay locked up in Skyhold forever?”

“Maybe so.”

“Bull,” Kubide said gently.

The Iron Bull mirrored his posture. “I’m fine.”

“ _No,_ you aren’t,” Kubide said. “I’ve seen enough Tal-Vashoth to know.”

“I’m fine,” the Iron Bull repeated.

Kubide sighed. He pushed his white hair back out of his face. “Have another drink, Bull. And plan to ride out in two days. _That’s_ an order, if you need one.”

The Iron Bull obeyed.

He had to admit, getting out of the claustrophobic walls of Skyhold felt pretty good.

Every time he waded into battle, though, the Iron Bull expected that this would be the fight where he didn’t stop. Where his control would snap and he’d kill his allies. Where Kubide would have to put him down.

It never was.

He still kept people back, away from him. Didn’t spar with Krem when he could avoid it. Kept clear of Cole and Sera, easiest to hurt. Avoided Vivienne. He didn’t want to hurt them, when it happened. When he finally broke.

“I’m not scared of you,” Kubide said softly in the dark one night.

The Iron Bull looked at him. His eyes glowed bright, gold as dragon fire. “You should be.”

“Mama and Da were Tal-Vashoth,” Kubide said. One claw gently traced the Iron Bull’s jaw. “My best friend. My old commander. They’re good people. _Kind_ people. Like you.”

The words felt like burning.

Right in the middle of dealing with Corypheus, Kubide dragged them all out to go dragon hunting again. Vivienne ignored Cole the whole way, while Cole rambled on cryptically. The Iron Bull ignored it all in favor of thinking about the coming fight.

Again, Kubide drank more blood. Again, the Iron Bull watched his face twist with pain, the fire in his eyes growing brighter. He could have sworn that actual fire licked his tongue when they kissed.

He explained to Kubide what “taarsidath-an halsaam” meant afterwards. Kubide laughed himself hoarse. “Only you, Bull,” he said.

“You too,” Bull said, eyeing Kubide’s naked body. Beautiful, strong and graceful. The scales on his shoulders were heavier. And, when touching his head, the Iron Bull could swear that there were small bumps just behind his horns. As if…

Much later, back at Skyhold, Kubide asked, “What does ‘ataashi’ mean?”

“Dragon.”

“And the literal translation?”

The Iron Bull shrugged. “Glorious one.”

He watched the meaning sink in. Kubide’s eyes widened. He stared at Bull.

“ _Why_?” he asked at last.

“You, uh, looked at yourself lately?”

Kubide didn’t answer.

He knew almost no Qunlat. Kubide’s parents raised him to only speak the local tongue. Living with other Tal-Vashoth had taught him clumsy grammar and a soldier’s vocabulary, but not much more. It was at once painful and wonderful to speak it to him, listen to his atrocious accent and stumbling pronunciation. Kubide’s grammar improved slowly. The Iron Bull was oddly delighted teaching him words fit for poetry, not a combat briefing.

“What does ‘kadan’ mean?” Kubide asked, as they slogged through the Hissing Wastes.

“Where’d you get that one?”

“Da used to say it to Mama.” Kubide squinted through the blazing sun at the Iron Bull.

The Iron Bull stopped and looked back at him. “For someone you really care about,” he said. “The highest expression of love the Qun lets you have. Means ‘my heart.’”

At the Winter Palace, Kubide wore a dress. Inquisition’s red and blue colors, showing his midriff, with a high-collared gorget in black leather, and gold combs holding up his hair. The Iron Bull, used to seeing him mostly in combat gear or regular clothes, was a little stunned.

“I can’t decide if I feel like royalty or not,” Kubide said, wandering through the garden with him and eavesdropping on the servants.

“Sure look like it, boss.”

He rolled his eyes. “The Orlesians don’t think so.”

“Do you give a shit what they think?”

Kubide swept him a curtsy. Coached in the course of mere days by Josephine and Vivienne, not at all refined, though physical training still made it look graceful. The artlessness of it, and the bright grin on his face, were charming. “Not particularly,” he said.

Everything got better when the fighting started. Vivienne was great artillery and Varric was at the top of his game tonight. The best part was, of course, charging into the thick of the fray with Kubide. They all ruined their clothes, of course, and got blood everywhere. Especially Kubide.

“Got something on your face,” the Iron Bull said, when all was said and done, and the Duchess’ body had been carried out.

Kubide glanced at him. “What?”

He picked up one of those lacy napkins and dabbed bright arterial spray off his cheek. “Don’t want to scandalize everyone after we just got them to like us.”

“Actually,” he said, offering him a hand, “I _do_. Dance with me.”

“You out of your mind?”

“No.”

It felt a bit like standing too close to a fire, turning him around the floor while the court looked on and whispered at the spectacle. The Iron Bull, if he didn’t know Kubide well, would think he was oblivious to it all. Whatever he was about—and he wasn’t going to pretend to understand this apparent political misstep—he knew what he was doing.

They got into trouble, in some ancient ruin. Unexpectedly strong resistance. The Iron Bull left himself open, let a demon hit his open side hard enough to take him down. He couldn’t get up, bleeding all over the ancient stone floor.

“Dorian, fix him!” Kubide shouted, pressing down on the wound.

“I’m not a healer!” Dorian shouted back. The Iron Bull could still feel him touching the wound, magic tingling on his fingers.

“Keep your eyes open, Tiny,” Varric said, standing with his crossbow aimed into the darkness.

Good advice. The Iron Bull focused on Kubide’s face. A cut on his right cheek, a black bruise blooming over his left eye. White hair, grey with dust, hanging in his face.

“If you die, I will _kill_ you,” Kubide said, sharp and panicked. “I will make Dorian bring you back so I can kill you again, I _swear_ , kadan—”

The Iron Bull didn’t really remember much after that.

He didn’t die after all, though. Ended up with a nasty scar on his right side, but it was nothing special. Made a good story, at least, when they got home. Krem was worried, but that was to be expected. He thought nothing else would come of it.

An early morning on the training ground with Kubide. Mountain fog still blanketed Skyhold, muffling sound. No one else was out.

“I meant what I said,” Kubide said out of nowhere, stepping back and lowering his sword.

“What?”

He looked the Iron Bull in the eye. “When you almost died.”

“About killing me?”

“What I called you.”

The Iron Bull wasn’t sure what to say. Kubide looked deadly serious. And nervous. He lowered his axe and leaned on it. “What, uh, brought that on?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Kubide said. He pushed his braid over one shoulder. “Just…happened. Somewhere along the line.”

“Huh,” the Iron Bull said, lost for words.

Kubide offered a small smile. “It’s all right if you don’t feel the same way.”

Did he?

At some point, Kubide turned into someone he measured himself against. Who he looked to, when he wasn’t sure what the next step should be. Someone who knew right and wrong. Someone he trusted.

The silence stretched out. Kubide looked near panic.

“Hey,” the Iron Bull said, reaching out and pulling him closer. He pressed his forehead to Kubide’s. “Kadan. No worries.”

Kubide smiled, brilliant, and closed his burning eyes.

The Iron Bull still felt the heat in his chest.

A _glorious_ flame, like a dragon’s fire.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Taarsidath-an halsaam:** "I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect."
> 
> Title from Bastille's "Things We Lost in the Fire."


End file.
